Anguish
by maleV
Summary: S.O.U. specialists Piers Nivans and Finn Macauley find themselves in a dire situation where survival is priority number one. A mission gone wrong, where Captain Chris Redfield is banking on finding them alive and well before those involved are passed the point of rescue. Warnings: Blood and gore, good old fashion horror! Keep an open mind.
1. Chapter 1

Full moon eyes with cracks of crimson veins looked daggers at what was once a human being, a son, a brother, a father. Tautened lips chapped via dehydration parted to produce a sputter, a noise of unadulterated fear. Instincts buzzed within his psyche akin to a confused swarm of hornets, a runty constituent of the S.O.U. demolitionist's brain refused to concede that there was no hope left. Outstretched arms were pinned to the concrete floor outside of the cell by bony knees and raunchy hands, applied pressure a refusal for circulation to reach his arms. Fingers crafted for crafting charges no longer had feeling, completely numb. Unknowingly shaking his cranium, as if the universal sign for disapproval would sway the primal instincts of the undead. Rigid fingers as pallid as the brittle snow graying from the melt scraped across the side of the standard-issued combat boot. Cracked flesh of contorted knuckles shaped fingers as if the bony branches of dead trees, a fingernail snapping backwards as it scraped further up to the uniform pants. Dense fabric remained stalwart against the prying digits of the undead. Finn wrangled his ankle free of the creature's groping hooks, lifting his knee high just before the sole of his boot collided against the temple of the unrecognizable face. It had no lips, just a grisly grin baring rotten teeth with grayed flesh stuck between them. Receding flesh surrounding eyes were stygian as the night without light, sunken in as with any corpse. Cadaverous eyes themselves bore without a soul, faint color within the pupils now peered only for the next victim. An ill-lighted trail of coagulated gore left behind the zombie, who was devoured to the point that the lower-frame was torn asunder, wormy guts painting its trail. It wore remnants of a prison uniform, bloodstained letters of its serial number still stamped upon its back. Lacking any conceivable way of escape, the B.S.A.A. agent kicked his legs and stomped his boot as hard against the creature as humanly possible. Amidst the skirmish, dismal moans resonated through the cell block. Psychologically discouraged by the heartless moans surrounding him, the growling of the undead beneath him. Despite valiant efforts, cold fingers caught him by the knee, clamping down. Quivering tiers formed the shape to say 'please', yet instead a bellowing sound of disgust and fright came out as howling wind carrying in autumn. He could not beg, he could not do so while in view of his commanding officer, it would be an embarrassment to the team he cared deeply for. Attempting to stow a sob, it failed. They had not yet accepted him, but he would work, as hard as he could until he was part of the team, one of the guys. It could be worse..., he could be his helpless A.T.L. forced to watch this miserable sight while they tormented Finn. If anything could be said however, the man kept his calm, bravery in the face of death. "Keep your eyes open, Macauley. Don't look away." His tenor tone was so placid, it made it easier to convince himself he wasn't going to die. He wouldn't, not in this miserable place. He hadn't even had a chance to prove himself yet.

"That's right biter bait, don't look away. We want to see the look on your face when you crack!"

"Just focus on the task at hand, don't panic."

Calling out in attempted bravery, it came out as desperation which quivered in his voice. Teary eyes flickered as one of his eyelids twitched from stress, gawking at the undead creature with absolute determination to feed, brown chipped teeth snapping hungrily. Discolored saliva dripped from its mouth and hung like a teardrop just about to fall, before it hit his inner thigh. Movement. His focus solely upon the creature clawing at his legs, through his peripheral vision he suddenly saw a moving shadow. Panning his gaze sharply, another undead thing, once a youthful woman in a red dress, the convict had caught a visitor to one of the inmates. She was fed to this thing. Her body fresh, unlike the creature at his legs, there was still tone to her skin, yet her eye was just as empty as they looked upon him, her mouth opening as she moaned shakily. One of her saucer eyes hung from the socket round as a globe, her ear chewed off. One of her breasts has been mostly devoured, ragged flesh and gore remaining, the dress hanging loose upon her as she stumbled sideways. Sour rot of human flesh filled his nostrils with every breath causing his chest to heave beneath his gear. Nausea crept within his senses even as his legs furiously kicked at the undead clawing at his knees. It was nearly impossible to concentrate on one thing when a sadistic convict snickered merrily behind him, croaking moans from every which way, as if he were the main course of a Thanksgiving meal with starved strangers all around. This couldn't be happening, there had to be some way of escape, it had always been that way. Whenever a member of the S.O.U. was taken as prisoner or pinned down by the enemy, the captain always came to the rescue with the rest of the guys. It would just be a matter of time before that familiar gunfire rang out, and both he and Piers would be saved. Nodding his head to his own hopeful thoughts, while the stern orders of the adonis not far off in a cage beside his own.

Despite his valiant struggle, the further he pushed against the corpse with it's grisly guts hanging out like a limp octopus on land, the further his pants slid up his calves and ankles, exposing vulnerable flesh. Shuffling towards him from the side like a gangly toddler was the fresh cadaver of the woman who had been unfortunate enough to find herself caught in the web of the convict, her guest tag still pinned upon her dress. Her eyes no longer belonged to the woman she once was, they were feral, wide and bloodshot as they fixated upon him, drool glistening the corner of her mouth, her jaw twitching. Approaching Finn with erratic movements, he yelped as the half-man gurgled out a moan and scraped the exposed ankle with its fingernails, catching the very edges of his sock, down to the tough leather of the combat boots he crushed downward towards its skull. Frantically bucking his knees upward, it was too little too late. Just prepared for the female zombie who hurtled forward; her knees making a knocking sound similar to a bowling ball knocking out a pin, bone against concrete without give twined with the powerful command of his fellow specialist officer. His warning was one of despairing tenor, blotted out as a pair of jaws snapped down against muscled calf. Blood welled, a volcano of lava gushing iron and warm into the mouth of his assailant. Bubbling and gulping up the tangy heat, along with sinewy and muscle. In that moment, all he could think of was Penny, the day she was born; he had waited respectfully until his mother had given birth, but it would have been an understatement to say he couldn't wait to see his baby sibling. She had been so full of life, and although his father arched a brow in regards to him having insisted that she smiled when he held her, he knew it was true. Penny had been the one person in this world that looked up to him, rather than down at him, she had encouraged him in his aspirations and came to him for advice, she was in her own way, perfect. He was going to never see her again, never see her grow up to be a good woman, never hear the sound of her cheerful laughter. Clenching his eyes shut tightly, tears squeezed from closed lids as he opened his mouth to let out the fiercest scream he had ever felt in his life, rising above the moans of the undead, the words of his higher-ranking agent.

"Macauley, keep your head!" A sentiment easier said than done. Piers could feel bile rise in the back of this throat merely spewing those cruel words. The hardest thing a man can endure was being eaten alive, by his own kind. The idea of knowing that that single bite would be his eventual downfall. Not a brave valiant death, where the man across from you pulled the trigger a hair faster than you. Or had instincts that were a fair amount faster. It was the fast that avoid that single bite, and you wouldn't get to look up to the skies and know there was the end in sight, but rather. You would become this thing, chewing and drinking your vital fluids. You would eventually share its thoughts and leave the world behind of all you had destined to accomplished; for a more gruesome lifestyle of feasting on your comrades. "Damn it, Finn, don't stop fighting." It would been all too easy to stop fighting and let yourself succumb to shock, rather than fend off your body parts from becoming an ill suited meal. But Piers wouldn't have it. Locked in a cell parallel to the fellow specialist. Piers was as helpless to aid Finn as had been planned. They'd been separated and rather than going after Piers, they had gone for Finn. Of course. The younger soldier, the less experienced. The one more likely to make a sport out of feeding soldiers to zombies. Gloved fingers gripped the iron wrought bars, watching as blood smeared across concrete, painting a picture of Finn Macauley's life. It was cold. Ruining a man this way, leaving Piers to do nothing but watch as his leg was stripped to the bone, white stained red from the running fountain of blood. Wringing the bars, sharp hazel eyes took in the sight, the scent of blood and rotten stink. Golden orbs darting from side to side, taking in what he had to give without weapon, leaving him nothing but to demand that his explosive's expert never stop. You never resign, even now.

Violently writhing, as if it would somehow help his situation, the zombies were not interested in Finn's valor or stubbornness, just as the high-pitched laughing of the convict behind him could not have cared less if he would ever see his sister again. He could feel the flesh being ripped away from his leg, an agonizing sound escaping his lips as the woman who clawed at his stomach, protected by the gear. It was hard to take in, that grinning maw sans lips chewing noisily against his leg, the shock of the sight itself nearly as bad as the pain. This is what he fought for, he went into battle so that no one would ever fall victim to this sort of fate, yet even as muscle were pulled like strings, his own flesh was caught in the monster's teeth and jaws. It was continuous, the clamping and yanking against the open wound against his calf, gorging itself upon his leg as if he were a piece of prime steak. Blood covered the pale face of the creature while his sanguine dribbled to the floor, muffled moans against his leg as the damned thing sounded happy that it was able to feed, and all he could think of was how much he wanted to break it's jaw, it's neck, and then it's skull. Torn flesh screamed in pain as the insanity continued, his calf trembling and attempting to move away as the zombie clutched it as if a child with a favorite toy. A squirt of blood came from a small vein as it shot directly into the monster's eye, yet it gave absolutely no flinch or any sort of sign that it was disturbed by it. How many times had any given person seen a predator feast upon prey on a wildlife program, and made a noise at how disgusting it was? There was no explaining living the experience of being the prey, the level of disgust that it once had just been a man washing over him as he heaved his chest up against the woman, causing her to tumble back a little. Lifting his free leg, he grunted loudly as the heel of his boot slammed into the face of the creature swallowing his flesh, collapsing an eye socket as it fell back, yet already began to flail it's arms to get back to it's chest. Curling his wounded leg beneath the other, threads of crimson flesh hanging outside of the wound like spaghetti, beneath that was black and red, mostly red. He was being eaten alive, and he was beginning to think that there was no hope left.

Piers stared at the lump of meat on the ground, grimacing internally at the visible pools of crimson that were beginning to spread. Wiped in chaos of hand prints and the body that had been dragged through its dark inky stains. A wad of stringy, chewed flesh, gnashed and spewed on the ground; peachy dermis flayed from its owner and regurgitated upon the floor. Blobs of flesh, that was what they'd been resorted to. Sacks of muscle. At least that's what the man lording over this damned facility thought of the man he came in with. Bitten, pieces of flesh torn from him and swallowed; the flaps of flesh that once covered his calf. Wincing at his ward's cries of despair, agonizing pain the sniper swallowed tight watching his shirk from the undead, even as the living pinned down his arms, heavily weighted by the knees of his captors. Their knees ground into the soft fleshy sockets, one in the crook of Finn's elbow, and the other grinding the joint of his wrist; prepared to snap under the pressure. Heavy weight, pinning those joints dared face to the side, admiring Piers with small pale eyes, licking his lips as blood spattered. His crass display had hazel oculars narrowed at him, watching as the bodily thrust of his partner, tossed the female creature nearest his captor, forcing him to give a solid shove of the beast away. An irksome burbling groan spewed forth from cracked teeth, rolling to its bloodied front and headed back in a faster manner than its squid legged counterpart. Spotting its lurch, arms outstretched for Finn, the sniper growled, dropping down as quick as possible, hand jut forth from the bars, to reach forward and snatch the ankle of Finn's attacker, giving it a hearty yank backward on the joint to slide its corpse toward him. The least he could do, as those holding down Finn's body watched in frustration. Quick hands; the calloused pads of his glove covered mitts wound around the struggling limb, gathering its full attention as snatching jaws sped forward in search of the meat of diligent fingers, Piers snapped a hand about its throat, smashing its face first into the bars with a clang that clearly resonated, breaking bone and distorting features. A second leveraged act stunned it long enough to lurch to his own feet, a forearm pushed out between bars to choke the throat, immovable to the bars. Using the bars to keep the monster at bay, Piers free hand snaked free of the creatures neck, gripping one side of its mutilated skull, the other coming free to snatch the parallel side, a sickening crack joined the air, and a sack of dead flesh hit puddled to the ground. One zombie down, one to go.

This was only supposed to be a two hour mission that turned into two days of being captured. Nothing had been heard from Chris. His radio gone, in sight within the office that their captor took for his own. Every now and then it would come to life, spouting off more information than the sniper cared to share with their retainer; Chris' voice though not soothing in the manner it should have been, hearing if their captain had found a trail to follow. Nothing that made it clear there would be any kind of rescue for either of them, if they didn't make one for themselves. It wasn't easy watching your soldier being turned into carrion, but Finn needed to fight back. Had to. A grunt of exertion fled pouted lips, hearing the frail complaints of the cohorts of the man keeping them; they weren't use to having a man who fought back. These men weren't the problem however, it was the one toying with Piers' rifle in the boarded up office, and setting up Macauley's bomb kits where he saw fit; unbeknown to either of them, watching while his cons played puppet with their captives. The Puppet master liked seeing it all, watching to see what lame attempts were made as his own personal show. The zombies were the pets. They were simply food for entertainments sake, but he wasn't playing that man's game. "Listen to me now! Lock your ankles Macauley, and twist. NOW!" Simple orders, for a man who's calf had been stripped of flesh, but Finn fought hard and brave. No one would fault him the tears since they had made a toy of him. Pinned him down for Piers to watch and told him exactly what would happen, and how. One even bending down to lick the tears from his face before promptly getting his skull battered by the kid's very own. He took them though, the orders, out of a haze; letting his fear of the monster shed as he bent knees slightly, slapped a boot on either side of the creatures skull, and twist as best as could be provided. A sharp quick snap.

It wasn't long after the execution of their favorite legless flesh eater, that fists started to rain down on Finn, endless like hail. They'd let go of his arms to straddle the younger man's waist; pounding bloody pulp out of his face whilst the other; his admirer with the pale eyes hurtled himself toward the bars where Piers had killed their womanly undead. Keys jangled as he reached for the means of opening the sniper's cell, eagerly fumbling through them, Piers' fingers worked in fists as he licked blood from his previously broken lip. Keys jammed into the lock, an ambitious smile coddling wormy lips as the convict set loose on him, salivated openly. He wasn't Finn. After Piers choked the last guy on his own vomit, they'd taken to picking on Finn, prodding the buttons that made the commanding officer work, hoping to antagonize him into giving more of a show. What show they would get was his heel taking this man's head for a vacation from his shoulders. Urgently, grimy hands worked the keys, chuckling maniacally as he licked his fat lips. Victorious with the key, ready to insert it; fists were halted by the screech of media overhead, heavy baritone breathing transmit over the speakers of the prison floors. "Ah, ah, ah. Leave him! Not... _him_." Fascinating, this one. Piers' responses to fear, adrenaline, death; the impending doom of a team mate. They had failed to gain control over his thoughts and turn him into the coward that they had these other corpses in the cells. Such psychological prowess, it beckoned for study. He had risen to the challenge, slain the undead from a cage not his own, and coached a dying piece of meat toward protecting itself, albeit a tad too late. Uncommon. Even in the face of his inmates. No, not just bait for his cell mates, not just yet. These would provide the most interesting forms of entertainment. Not often did a brave soul stumble into his domain. This one was his. Released from their grip, Finn curled in on himself, twitching and fighting not to be racked with the sobs that made his form shudder, hiding from further blows as a single vengeful leg twitched forward and slammed boot first into his downed comrade's spine. And on the verge of having freed Piers, the other snarled, growling at him as he backed away, contempt twisting on his features to something more akin to malice. "This one's special."

They left the corpses, presents for Finn as a man gave his farewell to the beaten soldier by spitting on his cranium. The breathing still continued, haunting above them, but Piers had learned to ignore it, squatting down and extending an arm, holding out his hand. Like that they were gone, all but the breathing. "Come on, Macauley. I've got you, soldier." Continued huffing, stark eyes flecked with gold cast toward the boarded up office, only a set of gray orbs visible through the slates, held on his own and never blinking; the owner of the raspy gasping. Narrowing, that heavy labored breathing continued, getting more husky as they stared deadlocked. Never a word, but the sounds from that room made it clear what this man thought of watching their torment; he enjoyed seeing what responses were elicit from them. It wasn't long before the younger man started to move however, and Piers attention was split. Quickly jerking his line of sight away as bloodied fingers wrapped into his own, easing him closer to the barred walls until his torso leaned on the cold iron; cautious but to only slide along the floor to the wall. Finn lifted his tattered body to sit into the corner for support. With his eyes jerked away from the slats in turn for attending to his downed soldier, Piers noted the breathing suddenly stopped, the squeal of the microphone turning off.

"How long? How long before I become one of those... things?" Finn voice croaked over the lack of silence. Certainly there was no longer a threat within his own cell, but this was an old prison, made for holding massive cell blocks, all of them in this case, filled to the brim with hungry, starving mouths. Clanking his craw against the iron, Finn turned his face at the feeling of his senior officer's fingers, squeezing tight against his shoulder, reassuring despite their circumstances. It came out as a croak, an alarming wheeze of despair. Pulling his good limbs toward his body, Finn turned in on himself, turning away his face to avoid seeing the gushing smear of blood. He felt like such a disappointment. Here in this place, he'd meant to prove himself to his alpha team; to Piers, and instead, he'd ruined everything. Salty tears clung to his dirtied face, smudges on his irish visage and snot clinging to the corner of his nostrils. Wiping his face a thousand times back and forth on the sleeve with which he hid his face, Finn tried to stop the flow of unbidden sorrow, but then his eyes would wander, and he'd see the huge hole of meat in his calf, and the ruined muscle; and again the tears would flow.

"Don't think about it, Macauley. Not yet."

"When the time com-

"I'll do what needs to be done. Not a second before. You put your mind on the now, soldier." There was no saying it, but he wouldn't lie and tell Finn it wasn't going to happen. Without the vaccine, there was no saying how quickly it would be before Finn turned. And though his faith in their captain was unwavering, knew Chris would never stop looking for them, it didn't matter so long as he could hear the radio echo time and time again with failed operations to find a trail. Psychological warfare, they were using the rookie's humanity against him, using his tears as a form of entertainment. They would get no such thing from his specialist leader. Fingers squeezed, Piers voice stoic as always, as solid a thing to hold on to as any. The fear that Piers saw in his eyes was expected of the man. In truth, the virus differed in all people. "For now, you need to take care of that wound, Macauley. Strip off the material, tie a tourniquet." Nodding, the rip of fabric greeted the sniper's ears, not allowing a second for the situation to overcome training. The boy was just a rookie, only three years younger than himself, and yet Piers looked on him like soldier now. The things they'd seen, Finn was only a child in comparison to most the team, but you could never turn a blind eye to his bravery in the face of what had happened. Not a scream from him as that monster torn into his flesh. A good kid. It didn't matter what happened, he'd always be Alpha in Piers' mind; they'd stick together. Pressing themselves back to back through the bars, Piers sighed, eying the corpses over his shoulder, blinking back any emotion, shifting the blood stained fabric about his throat at the sound of stifled sobs. "Get some rest, kid, just... get some rest."


	2. Chapter 2

"Piers?" A voice nothing more than a wisp on the wind, juggling with the fear and desperation that coerced the system of the human body once the endorphins and adrenaline wore off. Pain was starting to spread now, clear on the features of the young man, propped so precariously in the corner, refusing to admire the length of his own mangled extremity. Coagulation of the blood had been helped with the makeshift tourniquet, however numb and the tingling the wound had become below knee. "Piers?" Tipping his head, sweat beads tumbling down the hairline and temple to saturate the neck in more stink that reeked of fear, more fluids that antagonized those undead that were housed in the cages neighboring their own personal Hells. They screeched and clawed from across the way, the fingernails of the gender indiscriminate creature across from the soldiers grasped and clawed furiously, hissing out a gurgle of phlegm, and white sputum that gushed between broken, cracked teeth and lips; salivating at the very idea of getting to taste the salty dangling meat of the explosive expert's calf muscle. Twitching the foot of the cleaved and incised limb, sinewy jerking at the motion; pain lancing up the wound with a squirt of blood that soaked the rag anew with fresh crimson. Dirt and filth were washed form Finn's face as a new layer of sweat saturated his body from the action, his unusual pallor accentuated by the drops that streaked his face and neck; grimacing through teeth as he attempted to hide his sobs through hatred of what had happened to them. Spit discharged, speckling the concrete and blood splatter that still stank the cell, gnawing his own cracked. bloodied lip to silence himself. His commanding officer hadn't spoken for close to three hours, their bodies back to back against one another through the wall of bars, apart from the occasional request for the kid to check his own pulse and give him the numbers. Monitoring their status like the good soldier. Finn just wanted him to interact, someone to talk to him while his vision started to get hazy, nerves fraying at the edges. Perhaps the reason the T-virus was so bad..., was the waiting to die. "Piers, please..."

"What, soldier?"

Cold and calculated as always. If it hadn't been for the months of experience between both soldiers, it may have seemed that the sniper was fully capable of having been a criminal in his former life. Always stoic and silent, short and clipped in everything he did and said. Perhaps if they hadn't been so lucky to have acquired him for their war against bioterror, which in Finn's righteous opinion, they were clearly losing, then those promising skills as a world class sniper, would have found there ways to uses for something more terrifying. Still, for whatever reason it was, Piers was one of theirs, and even in his moments of sheer humorless contemplation, he was reassuring. It was Piers. It was entirely him that he would turn away and accept not only their fate, but handle it with grace, and his own situation seemed all the more tolerable for it. A silent, almost exasperated sigh escaped those pouted lips that he could envision, though not tip his body enough to see, even in the event that he could have moved himself any further. As of present, there would be no moving for him, not until they had planned a rescue, which seemed almost possible with the maintained life signs he had. Despite pain, blurring vision, numbness, and tingling sensations that distracted from the over all misery of their status; the currant pulse, and vital signs he could monitor at his commanding officer's order, were all almost healthy. At this rate, and with calculation easily made, he could last at least another two days... Two days. That was a long time in their world. They'd make it... "Talk to me." It was a selfish notion... but two days. He had two days to live, and if in that time there was no rescue, no escape, he didn't want these moments to be spent alone, swimming in his thoughts of Penny standing over an empty casket at his funeral.

There was quiet for a long while more, and then that tenor solitude hit the air again, and for a second, Finn had expected him to deny his request. "What about?" What was there to say?

Looking from side to side, the zombified remains of humans of all kinds reaching for him, while the scattered bits of the slain creatures that Piers had ruined, and the other he had destroyed, lay in reviling puddles of sick on the ground. Indeed, what was there to say, but instead of sulking, Thin tiers pulled into a smile, despite the scent of mortification and rotting stink around them, he smiled. "Instruct me how to use a rifle properly." The request caused perfectly wrought brows to knit together, head canting to the side for the first time in hours to catch a look at the side of Finn's expressive face. Confusion melded to understanding at that expression, and the sniper nodded, the fullness of his lips tugging at the corner in an almost reminiscent way of creating a smile, nodding. He wanted to hear him talk... Piers couldn't relate to Finn, not in anyway he knew how, and giving him hope was a cruelty, not a kindness, however his request wasn't to tell him they'd be fine, it was the simple act of hearing someone else talk. To know that sitting there, at least they weren't by themselves. A brief nod, and an elbow rest just on the edge of his bent up knee, fingers ghosting a motion whilst he took in a prolonged breath, staring up toward the ceiling. "How do you calculate a shot?"

"Calculate..." Lulling the word on his tongue, and knowing none of it would make any sense, the sniper smiled, and tipped his head. "Your rifle position is key for most shots, anything over 500 yards should be exact, within the width of a human hair is generally what they teach in the academy. The rifles in the B.S.A.A. are all mostly accurate, but if you want true precision its best to modify to your own needs. Flight path is the first thing to consider though. Where and what your bullet could hit before it hits your target. Everything around you and its speed. Wind speed that can remove a bullet from its path without more than a few mile an hour can completely ruin a shot. Distance shooting can be most affected by the direction of wind, rather than the force of it. You'll need something to make the calculations for you if you can't do the math in your head. The exact numbers work out into a mathematical equation..." Finn made a noise from the other side of the bars, some kind of cross between a content sigh and interest. All while Piers eyes snapped up at the sound of footfalls, watching their captor's peons beckon themselves to the call of their psychotic leader. "Temperature is important too."

"Temperature?" It already seemed to complicated in his head. Particularly after having viewed how fast Piers shot his weapon in the field. While running... Still it was nice hearing the analytical nothings. Every single thing meant something to Piers, and in that capacity, it meant something to Finn.

"It affects the swelling of metal, the constraints of the tubing, and muzzle, the firing power of the weapon itself. Humidity as well. Minute variations in the ammunition are the most critical errors. People take shots that are aligned perfectly but forget their own shells in the process. Bullet weight, powder charge, casing size, all those things can cause an errant shot, and ruin the path of trajectory enough to hit the wrong target. The Coriolis effect-"

"The what?"

"The rotation of the earth, has to be factored in, for any long distance shot. Overall its a balance of knowing your angles and being sure of your shot. If you can't guarantee a hit, you shouldn't be shooting a rifle. There have been over a dozen that I haven't taken based on the principal that a stray bullet from a rifle with the force of my own, maintained to destroy and bore through metals and heavy artillery, can quite literally become a weapon of mass destruction in the wrong moments." So completely taken with his craft, Piers could talk for hours on the subject, but that was with the will to educate someone on the uses of his own weapon, where he had started to drift his attention from that, to the look of demonic possession that were splayed across those exiting the chambers that their 'warden' maintained for himself. Peering with those narrowed eyes through the slates of the blinds, lifted to watch their guinea pigs trapped in their cage. The methodical movement through the cages working with a pandemonium of thoughts in his mind as he listened to Finn ramble talk about the nature of explosives, his tone taking a step toward the grim. "Macauley." Silence was embedded, eyes noting the intention in those of the men crossing the catwalk of the upper level of cells, an animalistic glint to their eyes just as dangerous as the dead stares of the creatures within the cells around them. "This is an order, do not question it." Apprehension built between the two, but Piers' voice dropped passed it's usual sultry tenor, unable to carry passed the gurgled squilshing of those creatures surrounding them, acting as a guard to protect their words from prying ears, catching the hints of sick laughter lofting over the roars. Voices were faint, yet one of the men unmistakably made comment of the sniper's plush tiers. One could only imagine what that line of thought led to. "When they come for me. Don't fight. Turn your face, don't look, don't talk back, just let it happen." Suddenly there was anxiety in Finn's voice, his inability to see what was happening as he was forced to face the opposite side, unable to do more than flail to try and peer over his shoulder; pose his body in a manner that would show why the sudden tensity in the confines of the sniper's tone.

"Bu-"

"That's an_ order_, soldier. No matter what they say, what they ask, you will not respond. No matter what you hear. When they come for me, you will not resist. Repeat it."

"I... I will not resist."

"Good." Shifting ever so slightly, the straightening of his spine, a hand slipped between the bars, up against Finn's own hand that rest there, pushing a long tube into the rough bloodied palm of the younger man there. It was useful for nothing, but the understanding was there. The single shell casing that he'd been holding on to since the moment they were taken. "One last order, soldier..." Thin fingers gripped tight, clutching the metallic case and thumbing the rounded end. "If at any point you see an opportunity to escape..." Finn's hand squeezed tighter, but as if to sever the emotional attachment, the sniper jerked his own away, calloused tips leaving the warm grip for bracing himself on the concrete, shoving up off the floor. "You will go. You won't look for me, you won't come after me, you will not look back. You understand? You turn back, you so much as think about coming for me, I will shoot you myself." Up to his full stature, Piers tipped his weight, drawing himself absently between Finn and the others that had come for their further torment, batons of the former guards up against the cage bars, clanking menacingly without rhythm. One of the men scowled as the grimy fingers of a creature reached out from a cage for him, the fingers met with the bashing of the blunt stick, easily taking the fingers off of the hand as dead flesh was smashed against the bars of the cage, the inmate spouting obscenities at the creature afterwards as if it would have it's feelings hurt. No such outcome. Nonetheless, like a clock ticking down, the clanking neared their cells as the inmates grinned all too mischievously in the direction of Piers, waggling their brows as if to say they had something special in store for him. Nothing he couldn't imagine they were capable of, or that he would be spared from, it didn't take a genius. Iron keys waggled before him, the inmate in charge of them grinning like a mad man, whilst the other four tapped their batons in sync against the bars, the insert of the keys halting the noise, creaking cage door craning open with rusted resistance, both parties poised. Hazel oculars narrowed, his right had raising. He'd informed Finn not to fight back, he couldn't, not in the state he was in. They needed him to be able to move when it was time, and they wouldn't if Finn got the tar kicked out of him..., the same applied to Piers, no matter how many of those shits he knew he'd take down in a fight.

It wasn't long after that key turned, tumbling in the locks that they had flooded in one by one. Piers had been up of his own accord, and the look on his face, though defensive, hedged no fear in those that had filtered in, the only sound, that of Finn's body dragging, trying to turn himself so he could see, so he could help, whatever the case was. "Warden wants to see you." Hazel oculars snapping from one to the other, checking hands, checking faces, the wide grins of others and perverse stares, along with Finn's labored gasp at rotating himself, hands clutching the bars. "Why don't you do us a favor, struggle?" He wouldn't give them the pleasure, about time they went face to face with one another. That and their equipment was in that office, so if the recluse commander of these ingrate inmates was going to make his appearance at long last, at least it would give him the chance to see just what they were up against. A round of chuckles when up, contemplative eyes following each man carefully until one finally came round the front of the body, a pair of handcuffs dangling by the chain, precariously by the index finger, drawing a round of provocative snickers. It was childish to think after what he'd done to their patrol before he was taken, that they would have been so lenient as to allow him freedom of his limbs. To his credit however, the man never once balked as those around him started making cat calls to the turn on his heel, presenting his back and both hands came together behind his back. his eyes rested on the wall of jail bars, ignoring the fear, the way Finn snapped his hand around the bar to drag himself upright along the bars to stand facing him, pleading eyes requesting a belittled chance at fighting back. "Hooooo, tell me lads, you ever have one so willing?" A cacophony of howls rising up in the cell, footsteps preceding the sudden touch of steel to limber wrists, cinching shut around them while the joints where chewed into, teeth gnawing into them of the hinged parts of cuffs. Unsavory breath hit and was stayed by the fabric of tight knit folds of the sniper scarf that was worn by the young soldier; followed by weight, pressured up against his backside as the metal clasped tighter, grinding against the bones. "Smells _good_..." Finn's lips mouthed for him to fight back, but wouldn't utter a sound, just as his orders that had preceded this, but it didn't go completely unheeded, the offset of balance as the seasoned soldier tipped a foot and jerked his form, a shoulder shoved back and knocking the weight of the convict that dared to press his nose into the back of Piers' neck, a hard clang resounding, as palm met spine, burying the sniper's face into the bars. "Wrong move, pretty boy. I _said,_ the warden..., wants to see you. Not until we're done with ya!"

The first hit came to the ribs, forcing a spasm to cough, the butt end of a baton to the ribs before forcibly jerked to turn around, body slammed backward as a second more pronounced shot came to the diaphragm, unhidden by forcibly restrained arms, sons of bitches, but Piers took it, dropped to a knee from the brunt force. The wind being knocked out of a person can be quite hard on the body, he was trained in C.Q.C. with a man made of nails, but it didn't mean he invited the pain it caused. "Stop!" Finn's voice cracked, watching the third blow, that echoed with laughter. Piers knew what he was doing.., the less you fight the less interest they had in taking their pound of flesh, and his eyes had locked and found those of the voyeur that watched over his 'punishment' staring down in interest. The young man's head lolled until he glared at the men who were worthless in his mind. Simple dogs obeying their master's commands, a master who was looking for reactions. A thousand voices seemed to mock Finn's holler for obedience, teasing as iron clanged from above. A long chain fed down from the bars overhead by an unknown source that the sniper couldn't see, that he didn't need to see. There were five of them and one of him, and unwilling to fight back... it was a simple matter of transferring those captured hands to the front that lean body so that his arms could be lifted over head. The men then pulled the other end of the chain to hook the other end on the bars of the door; leaving Piers dangling several inches off the floor. Hauled high above, he contemplated fighting back, wrapping a leg around one of their necks and suffocating the guy to death, or using the same move he taught fine and snap his neck with enough force; but instead he swallowed watching the pair of eyes with commanding presence. It was the only prequel to the barrage of bloodied assault; hefty wooden sticks brought down with force against bared ribs, a third, forth time, brutal assault began in fall in quick succession; along the fourth and fifth ribs, blood spilling quickly from the corners of pouted lips, veins and capillaries bursting beneath the flesh, with a resounding thud. Wooden stakes smacked against flesh, abdominal muscles splayed for those who would, clenching as the other three batons came hurtling down, exerting all the more force as pain was hidden with view by clenched jaw and ground teeth.

The other blows were just as brutal. They weren't leaving an inch of his body unmarked though, the order was to leave his pretty face unharmed. That was the only bruiseless feature. A ruthless overhead swing came tumbling down, wood connecting with the joint with the most tension, colliding with the shoulder's remaining tensile strength, the strike to the left cracking the limb completely out of place. A scream of agony muted, as golden flecks were hidden beneath their curtain covers, the cry never left the throat of the sniper. It didn't stop his fellow expert from forgetting all of the commands he was given, not to speak, not to watch, not to give them the satisfaction of seeing what it did to him to maul his commanding officer; instead he practically wept over it, reaching out for the A.T.L. with one hand. "Stop! Please!" Pleas fell on deaf ears as a single well placed jerk of forearm muscle, and a flash of black baton stub came crashing firmly into the sniper's knee, tearing the ligaments holding the patella to the other bones. The pain was excruciating but the men didn't care, what they wanted was a reaction, they wanted those muffled cries to turn into tenor, hoarse cracking from the pain until he would beg them for reprieve. They wouldn't get it. All they got was a groan that had his head fall back against his arms, burying his face against his own raised bicep; he heard Finn's bellow at the action, his reaction, and though he couldn't see his own limb, he knew the extent of the damage almost immediately, forcing back the wincing pain and muting all the voices around him in place for the static white that burst behind his clenched eyes. The raising concern for his team mate did not go unnoticed, elbows ribbing into each other as the single man that Piers recalled as being the one who had knelt upon his partner's body to pin him in place for his own sick torture, chuckled darkly at Finn's dismay. It wasn't only the single con to take notice of Finn with a smirk.

It wasn't hard to notice the over attentive care that the explosive's expert held for his commander, and the watery drops flowing glazing over his orbs were simply goading for the convicts in their prowess. As emotionally overstimulated as the younger boy was, it wasn't difficult to make the conclusions that had them passing gritty, full toothed smirks. Moving with guided steps, grimy fingers holding out the baton of his own, nudged precariously up under Piers' tipped jaw, nudging it up against the jawline, forcing the tip of his head further. Admiring that smooth, pretty face, blows ceasing to allow for the moment, a few whistles antagonizing. Missing teeth appeared along with the stench of the months that these men had gone without giving a shit about their personal hygiene, dirty hand dashing out and seizing that smooth visage of the sniper, unable to ignore the blood welling up between plush lips, stained in a dark crimson waterfall. "Makin' you jealous biter bait? Too bad." The butt end of the baton removed form his jawline came with explosive force, bashed into the damage riddled side, crammed up against Piers' liver, blood spattering across his face when Piers choked out a cough, only encouraging laughter, grinding the hilt of heavy wood into the wound, harder and harder, watching trained features twist in his hand, mocking them in mirror images a series of laughter rising up among them all; provocative jeers joining up, lewd suggestions that weren't falling on deaf ears, raising the hairs on Finn's neck hearing them laugh, watching another of the con's circling, cutting off his view of his partner by stepping around the backside of the sniper, baton cramming down the backside of tight fitting fatigues, drawing a growl from blood stained tiers. "Bet you scream real good." Hard wood crammed further down, shoved the debased metaphorical symbol hard enough to rock Piers' body, up against the man at his front. "Warden can have seconds. After what this one did to Eli..., I want to take my time with 'im." Hands found the rigging keeping hugging the sniper's hips, a buck knife cramming down against the tough fabric, snipping it off wit ha quick jerk, a third set of hands on him, joining another knife at the thigh, digging up against femoral artery; heavy hot oppressive musk of he half dozen men breathing on Piers' body. "Get 'im down lads. I'm first." Mesh, blood caked fabric cinched tight around the sniper's throat, choking off a gasp, clenched so tight a gargle escaped with more blood, a round of laughter going up at the sudden change of expression. Hazel eyes shocked open, another rig sawed through from around his thigh, unable to catch a breath, pouted lips separating for air, he convict at his front making mockery of the gasp, leaning forward so he could tongue over the blood pushed out between those plush pillows.

"Piers damn it, fight back!" Sickened vocals pierced the uproar of laughter, and lewd hands taking their hold of whatever pieces of body they could reach, some grasping hold of clothing, a nauseating rip heard as fatigues tore, admitting the baton that already wedged itself against the small of his back and further pushing forcefully against his body. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction, maintaining his silence, as a fist came plowing with brutal intensity into his gut, rocking the body into the man still clutching his face, squeezing. The senior officer had locked eyes with that which watched over them, making certain even through the muted handfuls of flesh being gripped, and the sound of unzipping clothing; before pursing those lips, saliva and blood mingled as he spat a glob of fluids into the face of the man who dared take hold of him, growling, his teeth stained with blood. It only made the brutal bastard laugh, releasing Piers to spin him round in a circle once, twice, five faces turning into a dozen at the continued spinning, caught by the face; a mouth forced against his own, foul tasting tongue slobbering against his before teeth crushed down against the invading muscle, retracted with laughter as he was spun again, another mouth replacing the last, smeared blood wiped across that smooth countenance with each crash of lips and teeth, over and over again, until they came back to those same hands, shoved against his thighs, backside, a knife crammed up bunched fabric shirt so the blade bite into a bud of darker flesh, giving cause for a gurgle of pain, scarf jerked tighter as he was sawed into, blood saturating the front of tan shirt. When the next kiss broke. the moved back in time for a hit to make contact on their victim's chest. A loud crack could be heard before laughter broke out. Another hit to the chest caused another rib to snap, as wandering hands roamed at their will.

The hits coming, ignoring the pleas from Finn, laughter rising up as flesh was bared, and the screech of the intercoms came to life, that husky breathing and the squeal of the device bringing a halt to all their fun. Piers was a bloody mess. But with the warning issued, hasty hands retracted, undoing the clasp of the chain that held up the sniper off his feet, dropped to the floor, directly on that injured limb, jarring the kneecap up into the thigh. The bulge under the skin where it was now placed was big enough to cause concern if he had been in a friendly environment. Piers closed his eyes against all the pain he endured, unable to hide the outcry of pain as he felt gravity smash it upward, a boot colliding with those broken bones until another man turned him with a foot, two others start dragging that body form the cell. Leaving Finn's cries the only thing to be heard...


End file.
